


You C-Could’ve Just Told Me Y-You Didn’t Want Me

by TheSleepyOne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Death, Depressing, Depression, Explicit Language, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Language, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Violence, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Threats of Violence, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27738556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepyOne/pseuds/TheSleepyOne
Summary: Moriarty really did it. He killed himself and Holmes. But did the great consulting criminal think of the outcome? Did he think of what would become of his tiger?
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	You C-Could’ve Just Told Me Y-You Didn’t Want Me

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled upon the MorMor fandom again and thought, “What the hell, why not? Most of this is either depressing, sad or kinky. Right up my ally.” Unbeta’d as always. 
> 
> Warnings: Please do not read this if any of the warnings trigger you, I’m touching on many heavy subjects and there will be a sad ending. Please be aware of what you can handle. There is no shame in reading the same coffee shop AU over and over again. Please proceed with caution.

Moriarty really did it. Jim’s really gone. No warning. No notice. No caution. No nothing. Just a single message plastered on the building in front of his window. 

“Behave tiger.” 

Sebastian learned on the news that night after not having heard from his boss, the man he thought of as a friend and more. The newscaster focused on Holmes’ leap from the building, but all Sebastian cared about was the body being dragged off the scene. That same empty gaze he had grown to adore, the same slicked back hair he wanted to run his fingers through, the same sickly pale face he wanted to feel under his fingertips. 

Gone.

Just like that. 

He had never told Jim about the beating in his chest, the butterflies in his stomach, the constant searching for him in a crowd. But the man must have known. He read Sebastian like a favorite book. Had memorized every line, every page, every chapter, everything. Jim had known and yet he was still gone. 

The arguably new fridge in his kitchen had not seen the sight of alcohol since it was installed. Sebastian had swore off of the thing since his parent’s passing. He had seen what it did to people. But tonight was an expectation. And so was the next day. And the next week. And the week after that. And the months that followed. 

The only reason he left his small flat was to get more. Nothing else mattered anymore. Time passed as it always did when someone died. Sebastian had no right to be mad at the human concept of time, but he had to have someone to blame. Something that made sense. Because if time was allowed to move on as if nothing happened then time was a bastard.

Jim wasn’t just some concept a man with too much time on his hands created. Jim was more then every human life was worth and more. Jim was also a Westwood wearing bitch. 

The man just won’t let Sebastian die. Appearing in front of him at his worst moments.

One morning or afternoon, he wasn’t sure, he was awoken by the sound of polished shoes on his tiled kitchen. His first thought was Jim, just like every other thought he’s had for the past year. Time wasn’t even really a thing. But alas, when he opened his exhausted eyes, because his bed was just a place marker, he was greeted by the sight of an old woman in a suit. 

“Good day,” she spoke in an central London accent, too polite for a shirtless man in his pants. 

“The prostitute lives a floor down.” 

She seemed to be taken aback by his comment, visibly flinching. Her lips pressed together a moment before she spoke, “I’m here for you on behalf of Mr. Myrcroft Holmes.”

“Tell him to go fuck himself.” 

“That can be arranged, but for the time being he wants you to meet him at his estate. He sent me here to make sure you were alive,” the woman said sternly, regaining her composure. Jim wouldn’t have even faltered at his comments.

“Tell him I’m dead.” Or will be if he could find the tenner he kept hidden in his couch cushions. He was due for another bottle. “I’ll even give you a blood sample. Just give me a knife.” 

The woman seemed unimpressed, taking in the state of the flat. Things were askew, he knew. That was the point of grieving wasn’t it? Being self destructive to the point of insanity? Give him time, grieving takes time, everyone suffers differently. He could no longer count how many times he’s been to Bart’s, just sitting on the ledge. The fact that jumping, falling, seemed like a simple matter to see Jim again should frighten him but...it doesn’t. He’s just biding his time until he’s had enough. Unsure what’s holding him back, waiting. 

That was a lie and a half. He had jumped, twice. First time a moving truck broke his fall. The movers had called an ambulance and he was rushed to the hospital. That was eight days after Jim shot himself through the skull.

The second was last night, morning? Some twenty hours ago that was foiled by a short woman who wore her hair in a low ponytail. She had given him some sort of speech but he just tuned out her voice and threw away the slip of paper with her number on it. He didn’t need pity. 

“That won’t be necessary. I can inform my employer of your beating heart and he will arrive here himself,” she turned on her heel and headed for the door, her hand lingering on the handle before turning back to him. “What made him worth suffering for?” 

The door clinked shut. 

More than the bastard realized.

“Calling me a bastard and a bitch? On the same day? I’m honored, Sebby,” came Moriarty’s voice from the arm of the couch. “Really, just wonderful what you’ve done to the place.” 

“What are you doing here?” Sebastian groaned to the figment of his imagination which was also a shit eating bitch. 

“Picking flowers, what do you think I’m doing?” 

Sebastian couldn’t help but grin at the comment. He knew Jim wasn’t actually here but if he could fool himself for an hour or so. The calmest hours he granted himself once a week.

“C-could you hold my hand?” Sebastian begged in a whisper, not looking up at the gaze of his one sided lover. 

“This again?” He could hear Moriarty rolling his eyes. “I guess, but only for a moment.” The ghost held out his hand, far enough to make Sebastian work for it. He always did, forcing himself to move, to crawl, fight tooth and nail with his useless body to get up and hold Moriarty’s non-existent hand. 

Moriarty’s hand was cold. That was how he imagined it if he had ever gotten the chance to hold it. Moriarty’s hand was soft because he never had to do any dirty work. Nails filed down and clean, pristine. The real Jim would never, but Sebastian let himself have this. 

“You’re crying again. I thought this was supposed to be my moment.” Moriarty lifted his face to meet his, wiping the tears with an invisible force. “Can you not make this about yourself for one moment? It's starting to get on my nerves and Daddy wants the spotlight so SUCK IT UP.” 

Sebastian clenched Moriarty’s hand, nodding and willing himself not to cry. It never worked. “Why did you have to leave?” it came out as an uncontrollable sob.

“Things were too boring. I needed a change of pace. What’s better than being a ghost?” Moriarty licked his tears clean but more poured down.

“I-I could h-have-”

“You could have done NOTHING to change my mind. Even your subconsciousness knows that, Sebby.”

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, who knows passed as Sebastian cried into the arms of a dead man. He curled into Moriarty’s side, a trembling ball of compressed pain. The alcohol was wearing off at this point and he longed for another hit. Something stronger perhaps. 

Just anything to make him forget for a while, because while he permitted himself to cry with Moriarty, feeling nothing at all felt better. Just empty, mindlessness. Unconsciousness. Anything but this. 

“Why...why won’t you-you let me die?”

“Because you know I would be furious if you died. Rage wouldn’t even cut it if you met me in hell.” Moriarty brushed back his overgrown hair, messing with his beard just because he could. 

“I want your rage instead of this. Please,” he begged, rubbing his head against Moriarty’s chest. “I-I had a gun stashed here. I knew exactly where it was and how many bullets were in it. Jim...he...the real Jim took the bullets out.” He picked at the loose strings on the couch, unable to face his mind. “He-” he croaked, “He took them and put them in his own gun. I-I checked and everything….” Pressing the heel of his palms to his hand Sebasatian continued in between gasps. “I want them back. I want my bullets back. I want him back. I want him. I want him alive and here. I want to hold him and let him hold me. I want him. I want Jim. I don’t care if-if he never wanted me. If he-” It pained him to keep talking, to admit this in his worst moment. “If he did this just to get away from me...I just want him back.” 

“You’re being awfully selfish today. What if I really did this to get away from you? And now you want me to come back? Sebby, please. Be realistic. If all of this is because you’re useless, and it can very well be, then I don’t want you.”

“So that’s it? You won’t even let me off myself?” Sebastian mumbled into his sleeve, his eyes stung from crying and he was too dehydrated to continue.

“Behave tiger.”

He didn’t clean himself off or made himself look presentable like he did with Jim. He just smoked as he tried to find himself a cab to the other Holmes’ estate. Apparently that wasn’t needed due to the fact a black car pulled right up next to him, the front window lowering to reveal a driver that motioned for him to get in. 

Sebastian did so, flicking off the cigarette before entering. The driver didn’t speak, not that he would reply, but the man looked like he wanted to. A new guy who was still learning the ropes. 

“D-” 

“Talking out of turn will get you fired, or killed,” Sebastian repeated the phrase Jim had told him the first day he worked for the man. Back then he didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he wanted a quick, high paying job. 

“Rude,” the driver murmured before pulling into a driveway. He stopped the vehicle and gestured for Sebastian to exit with a roll of his eyes. Sebastian wondered then what the other Holmes would do if he blooded up the driver. Getting himself killed had crossed his mind numerous times, bar fights and ally robberies, but he was too skilled to allow himself to be disarmed. But the Holmes were of a different story altogether. They could have him killed in an instant if they felt like.

“Well are you going to leave or what?” 

Holmes would probably do nothing, not for a driver this chatty. He left the vehicle with Moriarty on his tail, “You’re useless, you know that? I tell you to do one thing and you do another. Well you come to hell, don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me.” 

Sebastian resisted crying in the home of Jim’s worst enemy’s brother. It wasn’t worth it, he told himself. Whether he believed himself? He didn’t feel the tell tale wetness on his cheeks so that was something. 

“Good day,” the elder brother greeted him, not a hair out of place despite the fact that his brother was dead. 

“What do you want.” 

“Getting straight to business I see. Very well then,” Mycroft thumped his cane on his hardwood floors of his parlor. “I have an assignment for you, think of it as a favor if you will.”

“Fuck off,” he turned on his heel to leave only to freeze in place. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, as alive as the day he was born. Not a wound or sign or anything that said he was dead or had been. Just standing there.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Jim Moriarty is dead.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. 

“Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty’s right hand man and one sided lover from the state of your appearance. How is crying over a man who will never love you going?”

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Jim Moriarty is dead.

The other Holmes rolled his eyes, “I’m trying to get him to work with us Sherlock, not plan our murders.” 

“I can’t say the same for him though,” Sherlock smirked, like he was getting a rise out of seeing Sebastian like this. A caged, striving tiger pacing. 

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Jim Moriarty is dead.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Jim Moriarty is dead.

“If you want to kill me just do it. I won’t fight back,” Sebastian stated, meaning every word. He just wanted the release of death. If anything his dying might please Jim Moriarty. Having someone watch the life or what was left of it, drain from his eyes. He could only hope. “Just kill me.” 

“On the contrary. We want you alive.” 

“I’m useless alive or dead,” he repeated what his mind told him.

“I can assure you, you’re m-” 

The gunshots shattered the parlor windows. Glass burst from their constricting frames, a shower of shards raining down. More gunshots followed, a dozen barrels at the least. Sherlock and Mycroft ducked for cover because they wanted to live. Sebastian stayed where he was because he would rather not. 

A shot pierced his side immediately, then another and another. His legs could no longer support him so he fell forward, the side of his face pressed up against the rough carpet. He was staining it red, a stark color against the shades of brown and white. 

Rope ladders dropped the sky, bodies lowering from out of view helicopters. They entered in pairs, shooting up the parlor room and everything in it. Over the sound of gunshots nothing could be heard then it stopped like a conductor silencing an orchestra with practice.

A suited man entered the ruined parlor, his arms spread wide in dramatic flare. “Daddy’s back, Sherlock!” 

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock exclaimed, smiling from his cover behind a bookshelf. “Glad you could make it.” 

“I missed you, Sherly.”

Sebastian could only smile from the floor. 

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Jim Moriarty is alive.

And all it took was for him to be bleeding out on the floor from gun wounds. Dying. Unable to feel his arms or legs. That was all it took for Jim Moriarty to come back.

His grin pained his face from disuse, but he couldn’t stop it. Joy didn’t cover what he was feeling. The love of his life, forever one sided; the man he yearned to stay by, to hold, to drink and live alongside was fucking alive.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Jim Moriarty is alive.

Jim Moriarty is alive.

Jim Moriarty is alive.

Jim Moriarty is alive.

“Y-you’re alive,” he gasped from the floor, his blood cooling but his smirk never faltering. He wanted so badly to drag himself to Jim Moriarty but he couldn’t feel the warmth in his limbs. The man was right there, breathing, standing tall, and looking so jubilant. Sebastian really was useless. 

“Tiger?” Jim Moriarty’s act flickered when he heard the sound of Sebastian. He turned to face the fallen sniper and every set of eyes in the room followed. 

“Y-you’re here,” Sebastian choked on a laugh, his eyelids heavy. “You c-could’ve just told me y-you didn’t want me.” 

“SEBASTIAN?!” 

His eyelids closed shut. What remained of the feelings in his limbs dispersed. His labored breaths evening out until he disappeared altogether. His hearing was the last to go but even that shut down. He was dead. That was all it took. 

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Jim Moriarty is alive.

Sebastian Moran is dead.


End file.
